


Sherlollipops - Band of Gold

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1431172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retro post-Reichenbach Sherlolly fluffy romance with a light helping of angst on the side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollipops - Band of Gold

**Author's Note:**

> This was sitting on my hard drive half-written for a while, so I wrapped it up and post it under Sherlollipops since there's no way I was ever going to get around to turning it into a multi-chap fic, too many other distracting plot bunnies – and, well, Season 3, nuff said. Dedicated to MorbidbyDefault for always encouraging even my silliest ideas; your enthusiasm is infectious! I own no one and nothing, not even the song title that inspired the story. Rated T for implied sexytimes.

Molly Hooper was in the morgue.

No surprise there; it was where she worked, after all. The morgue at St. Bart’s, her home away from home. The very room where she was currently seated, elbows plopped on the desk in front of her, no one else around but the silent dead.

The most interesting, startling things happened to her in the morgue

Like last night, for instance.

When Sherlock Holmes proposed to her.

She glanced around guiltily – nope, still no one there but her and the corpse of Mr. Juan Esposito, forty-six, massive heart attack under suspicious circumstances in his ex-wife’s bedroom – then pulled the chain hanging around her neck from where it depended under her jumper.

The simple gold band and stunning diamond-and-sapphire engagement ring that hung from the chain twisted and spun, catching the light and sparkling like no jewels she’d ever seen up close ever had, wordlessly proclaiming their intrinsic value to anyone with eyes. 

She could probably pay the rent on her flat for a year for what that pair of rings cost.

Not, she reminded herself, that it would be her flat for long. No, her lease was magically ending next week instead of two years from now, and after that she was expected to move into 221B Baker Street to take up her role as Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.

Widow.

She sighed. John was going to be devastated, Lestrade furious (and breaking up inside, she knew him well enough to understand his affection for the infuriating consulting detective ran nearly as deeply as that of Sherlock’s flat mate), Mrs. Hudson…she buried her head in her hands, overcome by the immensity of the task she’d undertaken less than twenty-four hours ago. Mrs. Hudson was going to be more than devastated. She loved Sherlock like a son, she was going to be absolutely _shattered_ by the news of his death.

And she, Molly Elizabeth Angelica Hooper ( _Holmes, mustn’t forget the most important part of her name now_ ), was going to have to do her level best not to fall apart with the rest of them. Or at least, to only fall apart enough to cover for the fact that, of all the people who cared for Sherlock (loved him desperately), she was the only one who knew he wasn’t actually dead.

Just as she was going to have to convince them that she and Sherlock had been secretly married, as their marriage certificate proclaimed (a real certificate, not a fraud or a forgery, they really _were_ married, she reminded herself through the sudden pounding of her heart), for the past two months.

A real marriage, because she had to be his next of kin. She had to be the one to make the decisions for the disposition of his “body” after his “death” ( _his_ fake _death, God please make it so, not the real death he was trying to prevent and she’d been drafted into helping him prepare for_ ). Not Mycroft, not his parents ( _still alive although off on one of their extensive trips to America, meeting them was going to be…no, best not think of that, now wasn’t the time to fall apart_ ), not John; it had to be her, else the whole plan fell apart

Sherlock had made that quite clear when he’d come to her last night, scaring the shit out of her as she went to lock up for the night…

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

“You’re wrong, you know.”

Molly gasped and whirled to face that voice in the darkness. _His_ voice, the one she’d know anywhere, under any circumstances. She clutched her belongings – purse, a few books she’d picked out for some research at home – to her chest as he continued speaking. “You do count. You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you.” He turned to look at her. “But you were right. I’m not okay.”

“Tell me what’s wrong.” Her heart was pounding, her breath shaky, but her voice was steady. No stuttering, no gasping, just four simple words, strung together in proper order and making sense both outside and inside her head. Good. She’d known something was wrong when he’d been in the lab earlier, and couldn’t help but feel…not pleased, no, never pleased…but certainly grateful that he was willing to admit it.

He turned, took two steps closer to her. “Molly, I think I’m going to die.”

She thought her heart stopped with those words, stopped cold before picking itself back up in a fast, stuttering beat as she asked, “What do you need?” 

Her response was automatic, but once her mind caught up with her voice, it approved. It was the right question to ask, even if he would probably dismiss it as obvious; why else would he say make such a confession to her unless he needed her help? If it was simple information being imparted, he wouldn’t be here, standing in the dark, scaring the shit out of her; no, he’d have waited for the cold light of day if he’d told her at all. Nor did it matter why he thought such a horrible thing ( _was he ill, was someone threatening him?_ ); no matter what the reason, she intended to help him, the same way she always had. Unconditionally.

He took another step closer as her thoughts chased themselves, as his eyes met hers, pinning her in place as securely as a bug under a magnifying glass. “If I wasn’t everything that you think I am –” ( _impossible!_ ) – “everything that _I_ think I am, would you still want to help me?”

No response was needed for those ridiculous questions; of _course_ he was everything she thought he was, she’d seen him in action, seen how clearly his mind worked, his brilliant, beautiful mind. Instead, she repeated the last thing she’d asked him. The important question. “What do you need?”

He took another step closer, then another, till he was right in front of her. Then he spoke a single word that nearly broke her right there. “You.”

Since he couldn’t possibly mean what her silly, stupid, overheated heart and body wanted him to mean, he must need her to do something, something only she could do for him. So she asked, no stuttering, no second-guessing herself or him, just asked the question. “What do you need me to do?”

She still couldn’t quite believe that he meant it, but when their eyes met and locked – _Sher_ locked, she thought, semi-hysterically – she knew he meant every word.

She counted. He trusted her. 

He needed her.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Of course, what he needed her to do wasn’t something simple, like grabbing a bag of toes from the spare parts freezer in the morgue; it wasn’t even as simple as just marrying him to ensure she could act as next of kin after the whole faking-his-death part of the plan.

There was the “I need a safe place to stay until I can get out of the country after I ‘die’” part of the plan (her flat, of course; Toby would love having someone else around and Sherlock wasn’t allergic so that was all right).

There was the “Help coordinate things with a group of people you’ve never met to ensure that John witnesses said faked death – yes, it’s necessary or I wouldn’t put him through such a horrible thing, surely you know me better than that – but not too closely” part.

There was the “Keep Mycroft away from my body no matter how difficult it is” part of the plan.

But before all that there was the “Come with me to the registrar’s office, sign a marriage certificate, then pop over to the vicar’s house so he can marry us” part of the plan.

Both the vicar and the clerk owed Sherlock their lives. Both would swear on a stack of bibles (the vicar literally) if necessary that yes, they’d performed their parts on the date indicated on the marriage license and not a minute later.

Not that anyone was likely to question it; why should they? Mycroft, Sherlock informed Molly on the way to the vicar’s quiet house in the suburbs of London, would be more interested in confirming that it was a legitimate license rather than questioning the timing of it.

“Are you sure?” Molly had asked as she sat in the passenger seat of the car Sherlock had rented or stolen or borrowed (she really, truly was afraid to ask which it was – and who knew he could drive, the man seemed positively _addicted_ to cabs!).

He’d nodded, once, a sharp jerk of the head, his eyes resolutely on the road ahead of them, the parts of it revealed by the sweep of headlights and occasional streetlights.

Then he’d something remarkable, something she still marveled over nearly twenty-four hours after it had happened.

He reached down and squeezed her hand. And kept his grip on hers, twining their fingers together while Molly gaped at him, fish-faced and completely undone by the gesture.

It still sent a frisson of ridiculously sharp pleasure down her spine when she thought about it.

Almost as much, she thought with a blush, as what had happened after their wedding ceremony was complete.

Her blush deepened as her fingers continued to worry at the two rings Sherlock had placed on the third finger of her left hand in the vicar’s front room at 8:30 last night. _“I, Molly Elizabeth Angelica Hooper, take thee, Sherlock Vernet Holmes, as my lawful wedded husband…”_

**The Previous Night**

As Sherlock parked the car in the vicar’s gravel driveway, Molly found herself fidgeting nervously. She knew she was doing the right thing, the best thing for Sherlock’s safety, but some part of her (sounding suspiciously like her mother) was whispering: _“This is crazy, Molly, you know it is. Why are you doing this?”_

Sherlock turned the key in the ignition, shutting down the engine. He’d let go her hand to do so, the first time he’d released his grip on her fingers since they’d left the Records Office. She looked over at him, thinking she was simply stealing a glance before they each popped open their car doors, only to find him studying her in the glow of the ceiling light. “It’s not too late, Molly. You can change your mind. I can find another way to do this.”

She reared back, eyes wide: “Is that…are you saying you don’t want to…but I thought…”

He hushed her by the simple expedient of once again taking her hand in his and squeezing gently. “I am merely offering you a way out, Molly. I can practically hear your doubts screaming at you.” His eyes were steady, not sad at all, but for once she suspected it to be an effort for him to keep them neutral. “Molly, this is it, your only chance to back out. To keep yourself from getting deeper into this crisis I’ve created for myself.”

“You didn’t create it, Jim – Moriarty did,” she replied, amazed that her voice remained steady and calm even after he’d proposed. (“I need you to marry me, Molly. No, not pretend to be my wife, to actually marry me, to wear my grandmother’s rings so Mycroft is forced to believe the truth of our marriage without question.”)

He studied her, not just to dissect her failings or gauge her weaknesses or find fault, but as if he were seeing her for the first time. Gauging her resolve, she supposed. “I don’t ask this of you lightly, Molly, you know that. And once I put these rings on your finger,” he hesitated, then continued after a beat, his voice rough with some emotion she was hard pressed to pin down, “once you are my wife, I hope you understand that to be a…permanent condition. I hope I’ve made that clear.”

“As crystal,” she reassured him, reaching out to stroke an unruly curl away from where it overhung his eyes. His gorgeous blue eyes, clouded with uncertainty for the first time since she’d known him. “You know…you know how I feel about you,” she said in a whisper, lowering her eyes as she spoke, suddenly shy. “You know I…love you.” There, she’d said it aloud. Blushing, she’d started to pull her fingers away from his face, only to have him grasp her hand firmly in his.

“And I care for you, Molly, you know that’s as much…as deeply…as I feel about anyone. I do know that there isn’t anyone I’d rather have as my wife, and I’m dreadfully sorry it has to be under these circumstances.” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them, his eyes never leaving hers, and she blushed even harder. For Sherlock, this was tantamount to a declaration that he loved her madly. She understood that about him, although that measure of understanding had taken her years to grasp.

But she understood it now. Under other circumstances he might never have asked her to marry him – but she was the only one he’d ever considered asking. 

And now, it would help preserve his life, and give her a legitimate reason to not only dispose of his body but also to live in his flat (presuming, of course, that John would do as Sherlock predicted he would and immediately move out, join Médecins Sans Frontières and vanish from London for at least six months) and take charge of his personal belongings.

It was a risk, turning her into someone who mattered, but Sherlock had explained that gamble to her – she didn’t think she counted, which meant Moriarty didn’t think she counted, which meant she wasn’t in the same danger as John or Mrs. Hudson or Greg Lestrade undoubtedly were. And once it was revealed that yes, she did count, it would be too late. Sherlock would be “dead” and there would be no reason to punish anyone who mattered to him.

If, of course, Jim Moriarty couldn’t be stopped any other way. And if Sherlock was going to such elaborate lengths to protect the people he cared for, if he was willing to fake his own death to continue to keep them safe, then it was a fair bet that he didn’t expect to stop Moriarty’s plan from coming together the way the madman wanted it to.

None of which had dissuaded her from doing as Sherlock asked. She married him. She would help him coordinate things with his Homeless Network and be the one to dispose of his mortal remains and do whatever else it would take to keep him and the others safe.

All that lay in the future. For now, they drove back to her flat after leaving the vicarage, where she introduced him to Toby ( _“Won’t John wonder where you are?” “Not tonight,” and no other explanation_ ), and started to pile extra pillows and a comforter on the sofa when he unexpectedly took her in his arms and kissed her.

Which marked the third time his lips had touched her face: once on the cheek at that horrid Christmas party, once on the lips, a chaste peck, in front of the vicar’s beaming face as he married them less than an hour ago, and now.

Only this was no chaste peck, no quick kiss to seal a marital bargain. This was a KISS, full on, her mouth falling open in surprise and his tongue quick to take advantage as the pillows and comforter fell to the floor and Sherlock hauled her closer to him, his arms encircling her shoulders and his chest mashed against hers and…and…

His erection pressing firmly against her midsection. 

When he allowed the kiss to end, she gaped up at him, breath coming in ragged gasps, staring at him until she found the breath to finally ask: “I thought you didn’t…that you weren’t interested…”

He smiled at her, a genuine smile, nothing dark or mocking about it, no false flattery in his eyes as he said, “And I told you, Molly, that this isn’t just some mock marriage. You are my wife. I am,” he added with a flash of impish humor that nearly buckled her knees it was so unexpected, especially considering the circumstances, “no longer married to my work. I am married to you, Mrs. Holmes. And although fate is conspiring to turn you into a widow no later than twenty-four hours from now, I’m still your husband. And will be again once I’ve cleared my name and destroyed Moriarty’s criminal network,” he added, as if reading the self-doubt in her eyes and body language.

Which, of course, was exactly what he’d done. “Married for life, Mrs. Holmes,” he reminded her with another flash of that wicked grin. “I promise, I shall do my utmost to keep our enforced time apart to a minimum.”

Then he kissed her again, and this time she returned his embrace wholeheartedly, allowed him to lift her in his arms and carry her into her – their – bedroom, where he demonstrated that not only was he not as inexperienced sexually as so many people assumed he was, but that he was downright gifted in certain areas.

Certainly his tongue and fingers were clever in ways she’d never imagined before tonight…

 

**The Present**

Molly sighed as her thoughts lingered on her ( _fantastic, incredible, unbelievable_ ) wedding night. That was then; this was now. She’d awoken alone, as expected, although she was touched when she dragged herself out of bed and discovered Sherlock had not only fed Toby but had also made a fresh pot of coffee for her.

Going in to work an hour later felt like the bravest thing she’d ever done. What if she let him down, what if she failed to do what he needed her to do?

No, she told herself sternly. She wouldn’t let him down. She would do whatever it took to keep him safe, to allow him to come back home to her.

She glanced at the screen of her mobile. It was nearly time. Time to steel herself for the horrors to come, if Sherlock couldn’t find some other way out of the insidious trap Moriarty had woven about him. Time to prepare herself for John Watson’s anguish, for Mycroft’s cold disapproval once he discovered his brother had wed behind his back, for the disbelief and incredulity of everyone who knew or thought they knew Sherlock Holmes.

She wished she’d had acting lessons at some point, had even nervously said so to Sherlock as they lay in her bed together last night. “No, Molly, your honesty and inability to lie very well are exactly what’s needed,” he’d replied, sounding as cool and composed as ever even though his face was still flushed and his hair was matted with sweat. He’d been holding her in his arms, her head resting on his chest as she spoke, and she knew she looked just as undone as he did. Worse, more likely, since she wasn’t one of those lucky people who flushed a becoming shade of rose or pink; no, she got all red and blotchy and unattractive whenever she exerted herself.

He’d read her so well, kissing her soundly and promising that things would go exactly to plan; if he couldn’t stop his “death” from happening, at least he had it all meticulously planned out, thanks to her.

She’d resolved then, and she resolved now, not to let him down. Ever.

Her husband. She smiled and slipped the rings back down beneath the cover of her jumper. Even under these circumstances, she felt a thrill at the thought of being Mrs. Sherlock Holmes. And soon the world would know, and attention would fall on her, negative attention for the most part. But Sherlock trusted her to be able to bear up under the strain, and she trusted him to know her well enough to understand what she could and could not handle.

Things would be awful for a while, but in the end it would all come out right. Sherlock would do what he had to do, John and others would suffer, but it would all be worth it in the end as long as everyone remained safe.

She fixed that thought in her mind as her mobile rang. She glanced down at the text message and mustered up a smile at the ID: Sherlock Holmes. Two words followed.

_It’s time._


End file.
